Monday, 9 May 2011

A good spider is a dead spider

I remember being a little girl, in the cold country side in Poland...

No, wait, until about a year ago, I've never lived in the country. Let me try that again.

I remember being a little girl, living in a relatively small town in Poland. I say relatively, as it was small for there, but quite big for Australia. In all honesty, save for the state capital cities, we don't have big towns here. Not in comparison. Anyway, there I was, growing up a sheltered life of communist propaganda. Little did I know, on the days I wasn't allowed into our basement, it was because it was occupied by a small, albeit very busy, anti propaganda print press, churning out flyers and banned books. But on the days I was free to roam the basement corridors and anti air raid shelters, I was always warned to watch out ... for spiders.

Well, spiders is probably an exaggeration. As it would seem, the cold climate of Eastern Europe does not allow for a whole variety of venomous spiders, or not many non venomous, for that matter. All in all, there is only one kind of spider that bites, or so I'm told. It's called the 'Templar Spider' because of its very characteristic white cross on its black back. I only remember seeing this spider a handful of times in my young Polish life, but each time I was warned about the dangers of its bite. As it turns out, the much feared bite is directly comparable to a huntsman's, but who back then would have suspected I'll be dealing with a whole array of truly dangerous crawlers in the future. If anyone did have the insight, I suspect my spider education would have been very different, and I'd probably would never develop this irrational and completely uncontrollable fear of arachnids. As my personal history would have it, I did.

I guess somewhere along the line, someone extended one too many warnings about the eight legged Templar warrior spider, lurking around the corner, plotting, scheming. I guess somewhere along the way my brain discovered panic mode that it still engages today whenever I stumble across an eight legged creature.

I often sat down and try to rationalise these fears away. It's only a small creature, much smaller than you. You can completely obliterate it with the use of almost any appropriately sized object in your vicinity. Why would you run screaming or turn into a trembling mass of nerves at a mere glimpse of one. And Gods forbid, anyone should get close to a huntsman, the incontrollable need to run in such cases is plain embarrassing. And yes, I did say "anyone", like my hero-husband on a mission to remove it from my vicinity. It doesn't even have to be me! Isn't that something?

So yeah, I'll sit down and think about the spider situation with a sober mind, keeping my attention on how silly I'm being and try to convince myself of exactly that. And then somewhere along my irrational line of thinking a thought creeps in. Why do these retched things actually come inside our houses? Think about it. Unless you have a colony of fruit flies nesting in your kitchen or enjoy the distinct buzz of a march fly in your living room, there is little to none chance of a spider scoring anything in the corner of your domain. So, why exactly do they bother?

Well, I recon I have them figured out.

I know what they're up to. Sitting there, motionless in the corner. Carefully watching with their four pairs of eyes. Imagine what you could see with four pairs! Do you think your perfect vision allows you unmatched depth perception? Now think how much clearer, more vivid and complete your outlook on the world would be with a few extra pairs. So, these little guys are armed with beyond perfect vision. They sit there, in the corner, watching, scheming, calculating. Have you ever left one of these bastards alone to actually lay a clutch of eggs and see them hatch? That's the trick! If you have, they have won. See, I recon their mission, once inside your household, is to watch. Watch you and anyone else enjoying a seemingly careless life in seemingly your domain. They watch, and calculate. Yeah, that's right. They sit there and work out how many offspring do they need to conquer. That's right my friends. Once inside your house, their only mission is to breed and breed, till their forces clearly outweigh yours, and one of these days you'll wake up with your face half eaten, a bunch of bloated spiders scattered around your bed. And my husband wonders why I have so many nightmares.

Deep breath. Another glass of wine. A quick scan of the corners in the computer room. We're safe. For the moment. They haven't witnessed my slip of concentration. They don't know I'm onto them. We're safe. Deep breaths. Better now.

So, in the light of what I know, imagine my confusion when we received a visit from a huntsman at the office. Well, clearly the visit wasn't the confusing part, but my colleagues' reaction sure was. Three of them expressed their surprise when I refused to go anywhere near the spider. "But, but, but you touch snakes and rats and things!". Well yeah, I do. But they're there of my choosing, not perusing their own evil agenda. Besides, have you seen an eight eyed or legged snake? Maybe that's the trick. Maybe if the spiders lose some of their limbs, they'll have a better chance at getting to me?

Oh Gods. I hope they don't read blogs!

- Posted using my trusty iPhone, Milford.
Location:Kadina St,Goonellabah,Australia

2 comments:

  1. Aga have some more wine, let me join you and then we shall talk about nightmares. Ps: your relay good at this blog writing aga grats! I'm proud of your continued existence in the blog continuum.

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  2. *leaping from my comfy chair and running screaming* Spiders! Where?! *looking about madly*

    Yup, like Europe, NZ doesn't breed anything bigger than a little fingernail as far as arachnids go (don't contemplate the weta!), so seeing a huntsman for the first time not long after I got here had me pooping in my shoes (well, almost).

    Having said that however, I find I'm now able to get close enough to hit them with a good bug spray...

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